“I was unconscious when you tried that,” Rokwolf noted softly. “We were both hit from behind in the alchemist’s shop. If it’s any consolation, yours was the first image I recognized in the haze of pain I was in, trying to regain my senses.” He smiled at her as he finished; it took every ounce of discipline not to grimace.
Sutugno managed to move one hand closer to him, but the effort made her wince, so he reached out and took her hand. “If I did not feel so awful, I’d try again.”
“Try what?” he asked, feigning ignorance.
“Don’t pretend not to understand!” she tried to chastise him, but again, the effort caused pain, so she winced again.
Anger welled up again inside Rokwolf, anger at Marilee, at Klare, at Klaybear, at her, for putting him into this situation that he knew would end in grief; he looked away toward the door, trying to compose his face, trying to quell the anger.
She was silent for a few moments, apparently unaware of his internal struggle. “Rokwolf, do you remember the last time we met, before Klare and your brother were married?” He turned to look at her and nodded once, but said nothing. “I remember that I told you I was already involved with someone else, and what happened between us then could not continue for that reason. Did you know I cried for days afterward? If you had asked me to choose between you, I would have chosen you.”
Rokwolf looked away again, and was saved the necessity of explaining his action when Daybor came hurrying back down the hall and into the room. Elanor’s younger brother held a basket containing the healing supplies Rokwolf had asked for. The young awemi handed it to Rokwolf, who set it carefully on the bed.
“Everything is clearly marked,” Daybor said, rather breathlessly, “now can I go see how Tevvy is?”
“Yes, but you should persuade him to make a search among the fallen,” Rokwolf noted, “looking for any who can be saved among your fellows. Also, there might be one of your enemies who we can revive and get some answers.” This last part of his request got Daybor’s attention, and so Elanor’s brother started to leave to fulfill this new request. “There is one other thing,” he said, stopping Daybor: “don’t mention that your sister was taken until after you two have checked all the fallen.”
Daybor nodded. “I understand why,” he said as he left.
Sutugno was looking at him; he shrugged. “It will keep their minds off what has happened,” he noted.
She smiled, although the effort caused her pain, tears glistening in her eyes. “That is one reason why I am so fond of you, why I love you,” she whispered, squeezing his hand.
He turned away for the third time, covering it this time by pulling the basket closer to him; now he felt waves of guilt for the anger he felt toward her before. “It looks like there is any kind of healing potion you could want,” he stammered, “general, neutralize poisons, cure diseases, sleep, what would you like to try?” he asked, turning to look at her.
She thought for a moment. “There might have been poison in what they forced me to drink,” she said, “but I think it was some kind of disease, so let’s try both.”
Rokwolf took out the appropriate bottles, unstoppered them, and helped her to drink them one at a time. She grimaced as neither of them tasted pleasant.
“I wanted you to know that,” she said, “in case anything happens. Also,” she went on, “Tevvy’s mother mentioned that you had spoken to her husband about a ceremony that he can perform and your reluctance to go down that path. I don’t want you to feel any obligation to me, out of pity or any other reason: it must be a free choice.”
Rokwolf’s eyes widened with surprise. “And do you still believe that we . . . ?” he left it unspoken.
She nodded. “Yes, and I am surprised that you do not remember it, which is quite puzzling, but it still does not justify our mistake.”
“Mistake?” he said, shocked by her change of position; he suddenly wondered if her changing viewpoint had anything to do with the alteration made to the patterns of her mind. “You said before that you did not care about your kailu vows, and so what you believed we did was no longer a mistake!” he exclaimed.
She flinched at his harsh words, tears glistening in her eyes; she bit her lower lip. “I am sorry; I was not myself,” she replied in a breathy voice. She shut her eyes and tried to turn her face into the bed. “Oh, it hurts! I’m so, so sorry,” she sobbed, pulling her arm and her robes up to cover her face.
Wave after wave of pain and anguished guilt crashed into his towering anger through his verghrenum, feeding his own guilt; she was ill, not of her own choosing, and for the first time since he had seen her coming down the hall in the ruins of the kailu school, she was beginning to behave like herself: like the girl he remembered spending time with on those visits to his brother. The guilt she felt was so genuine to her that it introduced a new feeling into his mind, a feeling that quenched his anger, a feeling he had almost never felt: doubt. What if she were right and his memory faulty? At this thought, his insides went cold; he recalled the haziness that clouded his memory of that night: he thought she had gone to sleep in his arms, after they had kissed long and passionately. After that, he remembered falling asleep and dreaming that they were still awake, still kissing, and . . . the memory made his ears burn even as he felt passion’s fires rising within, but the images were all clouded, as if he were watching through brightly colored smoke. Had his mind been tampered with, obscuring his memory of what they had actually done? But that was not possible: his verghrenum protected him against tampering as long as he wore them; had they been removed? He did not put them on again when he got up, because he was still wearing them, and he remembered something to the effect that no one else could remove them except for him. This meant that his memory could not have been tampered with, on that night. He remembered what Thal and his twin had discovered in Klare’s mind: how the pattern had been woven in such a way to anticipate the damage she would suffer when he and she were captured by the purem. Could something similar have been done to him? Something waiting for the moment when he would be kissing Sutugno?
He felt a very tentative touch on the back of his hand; he looked down and saw Sutugno reaching for him, her face uncovered, tear-stained, and bleak. For a moment he sat unmoving, just looking down at her, and then something inside him snapped; hot tears coursed down his cheeks as he took her hands in his.
“I am sorry,” he said softly, “for causing you more pain.” He lay down beside her on the bed, and pulled her head and shoulders onto his chest, holding her tightly. He felt her feelings through his verghrenum and allowed his own feelings for her to flow back through the link to her. She raised her head to look up at him, her eyes wide with surprise, looking a question at him. He responded by projecting more of his feelings to her. This action started her tears again, but these were not tears of pain and anguish, these were tears of joy, and she answered with her own feelings for him even as she buried her face in his chest, hugging him fiercely.
She released him, raising her head. “If I weren’t ill,” she said, smiling, “I would kiss you.”
He smiled down at her. “You have drunk your potions,” he replied, smiling back at her, “so I think it should be safe to kiss you,” he added, and he kissed her.
She pushed him away. “Stop it!” she protested in mock anger, and then she grimaced in pain; she let her head sink again onto his chest.
“I’m sorry, again,” he whispered, holding her gently.
“It’s so unfair!” she said into his chest.
“It is,” he agreed. “Now, rest.”
A few minutes later, Tevvy, followed by Daybor, stormed into the room, his face twisted with anger. “Where is it?” he asked, looking around.
Rokwolf shifted and sat up; Sutugno still clung to him. “Where is what?” he countered.
“Daybor told me they dropped the bottle they forced you to drink, and left it, idiots!” he exclaimed. “What a stupid mistake!”
Sutugno pointed behind her.
“I think it landed on the floor behind me, somewhere back there,” she said weakly.
Tevvy searched the area she indicated and within moments found the discarded bottle and its stopper near the bed. He stood up and put the stopper back in, then began a close examination of the bottle; the others waited and watched while he turned it over, examining each part in minute detail. He held it close to the light, bringing his face close to look at the bottom of the small bottle; he looked up at the others and said a single word: “Presgrut.”
“The old alchemist?” Rokwolf asked. “How do you know?”
Tevvy held out the bottle. “The reason why I said they were stupid to leave it behind,” he noted dryly, “because each one of them has his own mark that he scratches on the bottom of every one of his concoctions.”
“But that’s stupid,” Rokwolf put in, “because anyone can trace it back to the maker.”
Tevvy was shaking his head. “No, because very few people know what the marks mean or who they refer to.”
“Then how do you know?” Rokwolf asked.
“My . . . ,” Tevvy stammered, “my father knew: he somehow stole a copy of the symbols from Presgrut, I don’t know how.”
“I find it hard to believe that such information would ever be written anywhere,” Rokwolf said.
Tevvy nodded. “I pointed that out, but he just smiled.” Tevvy turned to leave.
“Where are you going?” Rokwolf asked.
“To find out what this is,” Tevvy replied, holding up the bottle, “and who he sold it to, and why he betrayed us.”
Rokwolf laughed. “And you think he will tell you?”
Tevvy turned around, an evil smile on his face. He pulled out an old bit of parchment with a wax seal. “Oh, I think he will.” He turned again and left the room.
Rokwolf sighed and shook his head. “Did you find any survivors?” Rokwolf asked Daybor.
Daybor shook his head. “No, and what is even more strange is that we found very few bodies, and no one else hiding,” he said.
“Did you search everywhere?” Rokwolf asked.
“On this level,” Daybor replied, “which is where most of them should be at this time of night: all of our shops are closed, so the only ones on the lower levels should be those on guard duty.”
“We’ll have to go check,” Rokwolf noted. He looked down at Sutugno, resting on his chest. “Will you be all right here?” he asked.
“You’re not going far?” she asked.
“Just downstairs to look for survivors,” he replied, “you can contact me if you need me,” he added, touching her bracelets.
“I’ll try and rest, maybe sleep,” she said, “if that fails, didn’t you say there was a sleeping potion in that basket?”
“There is,” Rokwolf replied, taking the potion from the basket and placing it in her hand. He kissed her once before getting up and leaving the room, closing the door as he and Daybor stepped into the hall.
The dagger thunked into the shelf, quivering within an inch of Presgrut’s left eye; the old alchemist turned slowly to see who had thrown it. He saw Tevvy standing with another dagger in his hand, ready to throw.
“Tell me why I should not make the next one go straight through your eye?” Tevvy asked.
Presgrut swallowed before speaking. “Because you would not get any answers, and right now, you want answers.”
“I have answer enough, that you betrayed us, besides,” he went on, “I have powerful kailu friends who could force you to speak after you were dead.”
“If you have time,” Presgrut countered, but sweat beaded on his pasty forehead.
“I can have them here in seconds,” Tevvy noted. He held up the empty bottle, then tossed it to Presgrut. “One of yours: what is it?”
The old alchemist caught the bottle, although he fumbled and nearly dropped it. “An empty bottle, so it could be anything.”
Tevvy cocked his arm back, as if about to throw. “Don’t play games with me, old wethi! My parents are dead because of you: start talking!”
“Throw it; kill me,” Presgrut challenged, “and then you will learn nothing.”
Tevvy smiled and lowered his arm, flipping and catching the dagger by its point; his actions surprised and puzzled the old alchemist. “I was hoping you’d play it this way,” Tevvy said, and he took and old piece of parchment with a wax seal from his pocket; he held it up for Presgrut to see. “Recognize this?” he asked. “My father left it for me, in case anything happened to him.” Any color left in Presgrut’s face drained away. “I see that you do recognize this bit of old parchment; now unless you want me to march you across the street to the city watch, I suggest you start talking. What was in the bottle, and who did you sell it to, and more importantly, why?”
“They will kill me if I say,” Presgrut whined.
Tevvy waved the parchment. “And I’ll turn you over to the watch, and they’ll kill you for what happened with Ruby.”
Presgrut’s jaw clenched, and the knuckles on the hand holding the empty bottle whitened. “I sold it to my usual contact in the Guild, Gunthar.”
“I thought as much, but what is it?”
“A mixture of the wasting sickness, snake venom, and poison from the spines of ocean fish.”
“You are being a little vague, old wethi,” Tevvy noted.
Presgrut shrugged. “I did not make it, nor do I have the ingredients.”
“Then how did you get it?” Tevvy asked.
“It came on a ship from Belford,” the alchemist replied.
“Who sent it?” Tevvy pressed.
“I do not know, for sure, but I can guess,” the old wethi replied evasively, sweat running down his pasty face.
“And?” Tevvy demanded.
“Who resides across the bay from Belford?” Presgrut countered.
Tevvy nodded. “Where have they taken Elanor?” he asked, switching subjects.
“I do not know; haven’t you gotten a ransom note?” Presgrut feigned ignorance.
“Don’t be smart,” Tevvy snapped. “Why did the Guild attack us?”
Presgrut shrugged. “I do not involve myself with petty politics of the underworld, so how should I know? I would bet that it was because the Guild has never been happy with your father for starting a rival guild and teaching non-guild members Guild secrets.”
“Did the anonymous sender of this potion tell you what it would do or how to cure it?” Tevvy asked, again changing subjects to catch him off-guard.
“No, but I can tell you something about it,” the old wethi replied.
“Go on,” the awemi prodded.
“It is quite subtle in its operation,” Presgrut continued, “because it includes the wasting sickness, the victim is worn down, exhausted, along with the venom, which causes severe, debilitating headaches, so painful as to prevent the victim from the sleep which the body craves. Thus, the natural tendency of the healer is to give the victim a sleeping draft, except that the third ingredient, from the ocean fish, interacts with the sleeping potion creating a poison that almost instantly kills the victim the healer was trying to cure.”
Tevvy’s face drained of all color.
Presgrut smiled at this. “Has she taken a sleeping potion yet? She will soon, if she hasn’t already, when the headaches become so painful that she can no longer tolerate the pain. Even more tragic will it be for your seklesi friend, when you return and tell him that he was the one who killed her, his dearest love, by giving her a simple, sleeping potion.” Presgrut said each word slowly, smiling widely, as if he were savoring the taste of them.
Tevvy was suddenly filled with rage; he knew at once that the old wethi was at least partially responsible for the death of his parents, for Elanor being taken, and for what might happen to Sutugno. He leapt forward, vaulting off one of the chairs in front of Presgrut’s workbench onto the workbench, and from there straight at the old alchemist, plunging his dagger straight into the old wethi’s heart. Presgrut’s eyes widened with sur
prise, as Tevvy’s action was completely unexpected; the old alchemist’s knees buckled, and he sank slowly to the floor with the awemi hanging from the front of his robes. Tevvy jerked his dagger free and wiped it clean on the front of the old wethi’s robes. He retrieved the other dagger from where it was still stuck the wall and touched the kailu symbol on his wrist, concentrating on Klaybear. He turned to the shelves filled with rolls of parchment and began pulling them off and throwing them onto Presgrut’s body; he moved along the shelves of bottles, pulling down potions that he recognized as highly flammable, then poured them over the parchment, breaking some of them on the walls and workbench nearby.
“What is it?” Klaybear’s head asked, yawning.
Tevvy looked up. “Sutugno is in grave danger,” he began, and quickly explained what had happened and what he had just learned. “Rokwolf was with her, so you need to contact him and tell him not to give her a sleeping potion or she will die.”
“I’ll do it now,” Klaybear said.
“Someone needs to bring me through, so I can burn this place and leave no evidence that I was ever here,” Tevvy added.
“Right, breaking contact.”
A few moments later, a gray, shimmering arch winked on in front of the awemi; Tevvy paused long enough to toss one of the candles onto the parchment, and when he saw it flare to life, along with the workbench and the wall, he stepped through the archway into their sanctuary.
Klaybear sat at the long table, Klare standing next to him, speaking to Rokwolf; Thal stood beside Tevvy, lifting Blakstar’s sword and closing the door. Tevvy saw Rokwolf’s face drain of all color.
“We’re in the cellar,” Rokwolf said. “It will take several minutes to get back upstairs.” And the way the background started to move, Tevvy was sure he had started to run.
“Give me the sword,” Tevvy demanded of Thal. “I can take us all straight to her room.”
Thal nodded and passed him the sword.
“Tevvy’s here,” Klaybear said, “he’s opening a doorway to her room right now.”
The Redemption, Volume 1 Page 91
